Hymns Upon Your Lips
by brookemopolitan
Summary: Sitting on that swing in the rain, Kate finally works out what it is she wants... My interpretation of that final scene in Always and beyond. Written for a prompt from BlindAssassin, and my very first attempt at an M fic.


**It seems like everybody is putting their own spin on those last few minutes in _Always_, and after a tiny little bit of peer pressure from BlindAssassin, I got on board with writing my own.**

**This is the very, VERY first (and possibly last) time I've written something even vaguely M rated... so be kind. With that in mind, a hundred million thank yous to Kate Christie for holding my hand as I wrote this, and just as many to AnnieXMuller for her edits. Seriously... go look at the work of both those lovely ladies!**

**The music I listened to while writing this is really important to capturing the mood- I'll be popping youtube links onto my tumblr (brookemopolitan), but otherwise, here is a little mood music for you all (don't judge my lame tastes)**

**In My Veins- Andrew Belle**

**I Just Want You- Original Castle Score**

**Touch Me- Spring Awakening Original Broadway Cast**

**I Believe- Spring Awakening OBC**

**Touch Me- Lea Michele at Upright Cabaret (this version was more inspirational than the OBC recording)**

**One Hand, One Heart- West Side Story**

**Tonight- West Side Story**

**The Word Of Your Body- Spring Awakening OBC**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Castle, it would already be back on TV. And I wouldn't tease the fangirls.**

* * *

She missed her Mom.

She missed her so much it hurt. Thinking of the missed birthdays, Christmases, her parents' 25th wedding anniversary, her graduation from college, from the academy… it left a physical ache underneath the place that a sniper's bullet marked on her chest. The bullet she'd taken because she was determined to give her mother justice; the kind of justice Johanna Beckett had dedicated her life to. Kate's entire life had radically shifted the moment she stepped underneath the garish yellow tape that marked out the site of the last place Johanna Beckett ever saw. A court of law was no longer an option for Kate Beckett. She wore her personal crusade like a cloak. She _would_ find justice for her mother, or die trying.

Her mother was dead. And that hurt. It was a rare moment in Kate's life that she could look fondly upon a memory of her mother. Days spent curled on a couch watching _Temptation Lane, _the day she'd had her braces removed, squealing in the kitchen after opening her acceptance letter from Stanford… They were all bitterly tarnished by the memory of the scientific detail that her mother's injuries had been catalogued in. How could she look fondly on the memory of her Mom, trying not to cry when little Katie Beckett stepped out of a change room in the purple gown that simply _had_ to be her senior prom dress, knowing that only eighteen months later, her mother had been slaughtered in an alley like chattel?

Johanna Beckett was dead. Katherine Beckett missed her so much she couldn't speak. And that _hurt._

But it didn't hurt as much as the realisation she might have lost Richard Castle forever.

He was a good man. A noble man. He was the kind of man that existed in the world of an Austen novel, not in twenty first century Manhattan. He loved her. Broken, damaged, and scarred, he _loved _her. He loved her enough to risk his entire family, risk his beautiful daughter and exuberant mother, just to keep her safe. He loved her enough to give her the space to heal; even if that meant she closed herself off to the world, and licked her wounds in solitude.

She'd thrown that love in his face. She'd let him believe that he wasn't as important as a thirteen-year crusade. Hell, she'd believed he wasn't as important as a thirteen-year crusade.

Funny how a tumble off a twenty-storey building can put one's life in scarily accurate perspective.

She'd just assumed he'd always be there. That he'd always have her back. In those moments when she was hanging off the side of a building, she realised just how intrinsic he'd become to her wellbeing. He wasn't just the cocky writer who would throw himself headlong into danger. He was the one who could make her smile when the weight of the world on her shoulders became unbearable. The one who could make her pick herself up when all she wanted to do was crumble.

All it had taken was one moment of him not being there for her to realise that.

She could keep wearing her cloak. Search for justice in the hidden corners of humanity's darkness. Even if she personally locked up the bastards who destroyed her family, and threw away the keys, her mother would still be dead. She would still be helplessly alone, her badge and gun her only comfort.

She'd worn the mask of Detective Kate Beckett for years. She didn't recognise herself without it. And she wanted to.

She'd stripped herself completely bare. The darkest whispers of her personality were on show. And as she sat on a set of swings that brought back echoes of a promise to break down a wall, to become the person she wanted to be; the cold New York rain cleansed her. The heavy rhythmic thudding of water against her skin soaked her to the bone, and rinsed away the last desperate longings of vigilantism.

She knew what she wanted, and she'd never get it if all she did was sit on a set of swings wishing for it.

It was time for action. Time to be brave.

* * *

He hadn't answered her call. She really hadn't expected him to. A call to his cell phone was all too reminiscent of her late night calls for a body drop. She'd done this. She was the only person to blame for driving him away.

No more avoiding. No more subtext.

She knocked on his door.

An indiscernible jumble of emotion surged through her body when he opened the door.

"Beckett, What do you want?" The rumbling of his deep voice was a soothing balm to her soul, despite the harshness of his words. She couldn't remember the last time he'd addressed her by her surname. She'd subconsciously accepted that she was his Kate, long before her conscious mind had caught up.

All her rationalising, her grand elegant speeches caught in her throat. She didn't want to give him her pretty words, she owed him the fullness of truth. "You," she rasped.

Her blatant honesty spurred her bravery. She could bear it no longer. She stormed the keep, crossing the threshold of Rick's apartment. She didn't acknowledge the burn in her chest when he stepped away from her; she simply chased him like he had chased her for years, grabbing his face in her cold hands, and meeting his lips in a kiss. He kissed her back, but his hands refused to take purchase on her body.

Touching him was like a drug. She could feel the turmoil pouring off him in waves, but she couldn't get enough of the feel of him under her hands.

To stop touching him now would be tantamount to cutting off a limb. "I'm so sorry, Castle. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," her whispers were gentle, but sure. Her hands explored his shoulders, her nose nuzzling gently against his face, close enough to share his breath. She was a woman possessed, her hand coming up to caress his cheek as she captured his lips again.

She felt the steady pounding of her heart falter when he pushed her away. She felt a tear slide down her cheek, but refused to break eye contact with him, nor relinquish her touch to wipe it away. She was sharing her entire self with him; battered, certainly, bruised, without a doubt, but beautiful in her brokenness.

"What happened?" He asked her, blue eyes dark with what he left unspoken.

She knew he meant so much more than simply the events of her day. They spoke in subtext, but her memories of Creative Writing 101 at Stanford made it clear that subtext only got characters so far.

"He got away, and I didn't care," she confessed. She felt like she'd had an albatross cut off from around her neck. "I almost died, and all I could think about was you." The hard lines of his face were slowly softening, giving her the courage to whisper the words that had been clawing at her chest for so long she could barely remember being without them. "I just want you."

She leaned forward again, ready to show him just how desperately she wanted him, but the slight jerking of his head away from her froze her in her tracks. Momentarily delayed, but the urge to touch him was so strong it burned.

She brushed her fingers lightly against the skin near his lips. That simple touch broke whatever dam there was between them.

He pushed her against the door she hadn't realised she'd left wide open, and suddenly, his mouth and hands were everywhere at once. His warm weight was delicious against her sodden frame, and his touch was electric, lighting her up and sending her shooting into the stratosphere.

It was like he was marking her, branding her flesh and letting the world know that she was his and nobody else's. It was all she could do to cling to him, and spur him onward. She was his, and she let his mouth explore her skin, his love counteracting the brutality Maddox had wreaked on her body mere hours before.

She pulled him tighter against her, her hands desperately cataloguing the breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his dark hair. She nipped at his neck, a branding of her own kind.

His mouth boldly explored the unchartered territory of her face and neck. He ruthlessly plundered her mouth, tasting her greedily, like she was a treasure that might be snatched away.

His frantic exploration shuddered to an abrupt hold when he pressed a kiss to her breastbone. His vision of her scar may have been obscured, but he zeroed in on the mark on her chest that represented so much of what had kept them apart. His forehead rested against hers, and he slowly moved to unbutton her shirt, giving her the opportunity to stop him if she needed to.

She felt his breath stutter in his chest when he finally saw the tiny fleshy mark that had kept them apart. She knew, she _knew_ that the beautiful man she finally dared to call hers was reliving that moment, the moment she was certain he still blamed himself for, inwardly cursing himself for failing to protect her. She would have none of that.

The frenzied energy of the room shifted. Kate lifted Rick's free hand, firmly pressing his fingers against her sternum, letting him feel her heartbeat, the wild pounding in her chest that was completely and utterly caused by him. She pulled her hand away from his, still resting firmly against her chest. She stroked his cheek, urging him closer.

The kisses she planted on his lips lost the urgency that had driven their actions since she'd appeared on his doorstep, drenched and shivering. Her kisses were infinitely softer and somehow more precious. The gentle kisses she offered the man who had taken residence so deeply in her heart that she simply refused to consider life without him were gentle whispers of always.

She pulled away from him ever so slightly, refusing to entirely break contact with him. The smile that crept across her lips was like sunshine after a week of storms, creeping to light her eyes. Maybe all those years of subtext had been a gift; Kate could see him memorising the tender smile on her face. Knowing him as she did, she could almost see him memorising exactly what he'd done to put that look there in the first place. Knowing him, he'd find a way to put it there every single day.

Kate laced her fingers with his, in a gesture that felt as natural as breathing. She couldn't erase the smile gracing her face completely, but the shy bite of her lip as she tugged on his hand spoke volumes.

* * *

In the deepest, darkest moments of her self-imposed solitude, Kate had imagined what it would be like to make love to Richard Castle. Fantasies of such intimacy had been a comfort she couldn't deny herself when she lay awake at night, too frightened to sleep as PTSD dreams ravaged her subconscious.

She'd always known that it would be electric. She'd assumed that there would be plenty of battling for dominance, determination to elicit pleasure in the other that left their toes curling.

Even in her most secret, most deeply desired fantasies, she hadn't come close.

He'd undressed her slowly, carefully, like she was special. Like she was the most precious thing on the earth, and if he moved too quickly, she would disappear like a whiff of smoke in the breeze.

He'd carefully mapped every inch of her body, hissing like an enraged snake when he saw each and every mark that Maddox had left on her body, soothing each bruise and cut with his lips.

His fingers found their way between her legs, leaving Kate boneless, fists clutching the bed sheets as his tender ministrations spread waves of pleasure through her body.

His tongue had tasted every inch of her flesh, eliciting a chorus of "oh my god, oh yeah, touch me, oh God, that's heaven," to spill from Kate's lips when his mouth joined her fingers, her voice raspy with desire.

She felt like molten sugar underneath his hands, smooth, flowing, and oh so rich and sweet. She gladly fell victim to his touch, content to let him bring her to the point of ecstasy and back again.

He took his time with her, slowly stoking the desire that burnt in her like hot coals. A slow scorch, not the brief but burning wildfire she'd always imagined.

When he'd finally, _finally,_ joined their bodies, the overpowering sense of intimacy was overwhelming. In the world of Kate Beckett, sex was a release of hormones, a physical expression of desire. Once upon a time, it had been a distraction from the overwhelming ache of loss.

Never once had sex been an extension to the words that had left her feeling so free. Making love to Richard Castle was like an extension of the subtext that had driven them for four years. It whispered of a mystic wisdom, the words that she so desperately felt, but hadn't dared to vocalise.

She was infinite, she was everything and nothing, the world was all light. She felt like she'd tapped into eternity.

He somehow _knew_ how to make her tick. There was none of the awkwardness of a first sexual encounter, all head bumping and teeth clashing. Rick somehow knew where each and every one of her sweet spots were, and he teased them mercilessly as he brought her world to a shuddering stop.

Her orgasm hit her like a freight train. She clung closer to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as stars, moons, and hell, even planets danced across her vision.

* * *

Kate had always been a do-er. Never one to idly sit, Kate fully believed in taking action. She lay naked, completely sated, on the soft cotton of the sheet that covered the most comfortable bed she'd ever experienced.

Such deliberate exposure once would have terrified Kate Beckett. The Kate Beckett of years gone by would have fled to the shower post sex, or tugged her clothing back on in the dark, throwing an excuse over her shoulder as she made a beeline for the door.

Her nudity made her feel empowered, and the feeling of Rick's bare chest underneath her cheek, her fingers tracing his ribcage made her courageous enough to utter the words that had been burning her mouth since she'd been hauled up from the side of that building.

"I love you, too."

* * *

**It may not be the greatest smut ever written... But it's better than 50 Shades of I'd Rather Kill Myself *ahem* Grey... isn't it?**

**Let me know!**


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